


Cat Eyes and Dwarven Spirit

by Havoc_Kenway



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: A little, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ciri is with Emyhr, Eventual Romance, F/M, Geralt is sassy, Gore, Gotta get 'em outta the way, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Minor Character Death, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, POV Third Person Omniscient, Sorry Not Sorry, Yen is dead, maybe eventual smut, sassy main character, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havoc_Kenway/pseuds/Havoc_Kenway
Summary: Laya is one of the first female Witchers, and she was practically raised by Geralt after a pack of Foglets kills her father, attempting to kill the rest of her family, but Geralt saved the day, as always. She volunteered to go with him to pay the debt, and ends up being pretty fricken skilled with a horse and a sword. This is the story of many years later, when Geralt suddenly leaves Kaer Morhen without a word...





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing I cooked up. I feel like posting it here will give me incentive to write more of it soooo here I am!   
> Please enjoy!
> 
> xoxo  
> Havoc

   A hooded figure sits shrouded in the shadows of the tavern, signaling the barkeep for a drink. The rickety tavern door swings open to reveal a few Nilfguardian soldiers, and the tavern is suddenly alight with activity. Barmaids let people out of the back door, everyone swimming to get out as soon as possible, but the shadowy figure doesn’t budge, lifting a tankard up to his face and sniffing it before setting it back down with a clank.

    The sergeant looks at the figure, a hand on his sword, and puffs out his chest. “Whose this’un?”  He asks, and the barkeep looks furtively to and from the sergeant and the figure. Without responding, the figure hops down from the bar stool, the clink of his swords spurring the guards to draw theirs. The strange personage doesn’t draw the sword at his hip, and the guards are slightly startled by how small he is.

   Suddenly, he removes his thick leather hood to reveal that he is a she, and her sharp, amber, cat-like eyes meet the sergeants. With the hood removed, the guards notice the glint of a wolf medallion around her neck and a few of them back up a bit. The girl was a Witcher, this much was obvious, but she kept her swords at her hips instead of slung across her back.

   She raises a cunning brow at the sergeant, eyeing his still-drawn sword. “Are you sure that’s wise?” She asks, nodding to the weapons. “I know you’ve heard of our skills, or are you just dumb?” She asks, her long, wild, coppery hair falling over one of her cat eyes and making her look even more menacing. She draws her own steel sword, raising her chin. “Or perhaps you’d like to be bested by a wench?” Her smirk insights anger in the sergeant, but she clearly wants a fight too.

   One of the guards taps the sergeant on the shoulder. “Perhaps we shouldn’t? Ain’t them Witchers real good?” He asks, the picture of cowardice. The sergeant scoffs, spitting towards the girl. “Please, I ain’t never heard of a female Witcher. This bitch couldn’t even beat _you_ ,” he says pretentiously, causing said Witcher to bristle. “You couldn’t even best me if I had my hands tied behind my back,” she hisses, flourishing her sword and bending into a battle crouch.

   The guards ready themselves, and a brave one lunges for her. She dodges easily, spinning around and slicing up his chest with a crisscross slash. He falls with a grunt, and the next one attacks her wildly. She easily parries with him, toying with him like a cat with a mouse. Finally, she counterattacks him, dodging out of the way of another guard’s blow and delivering a roundhouse kick straight to his face. His skull cracks under the pressure, sending his body flying and his head rolling. She spins back around and quickly beheads the third guard. She looks the sergeant in the eye when she lands, a one on one battle in the making. He growls, attacking her fiercely. She clicks her tongue at him, admonishing his blows as she easily parries them. “Wrong, footwork,” she jibes, slashing his thigh with a quick blow. He staggers, his eyes widening. She clicks her tongue again. “Hesitation, tsk tsk. That will get you killed,” she snarls, sinking her blade into his chest with a laugh before slicing him wide open. He falls with one last guttural scream, and she wipes her blade off with his pants.

   Coated in blood, she returns to the bar. The barkeep is cowering back there, and he looks up at her with frightened eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any clean rags, would you?” She asks, and he nods, pulling a heavily stained rag from beneath the counter. “You’re a doll,” she says, laying down a single Oren for it and wiping herself off. She winks at him as she pulls her hood back up, quickly escaping the tavern after throwing the rag over her shoulder.

   She hops up onto her horse, Eskel, and pulls at the reigns, snapping them and galloping down the path away from the small village. She rides towards the nearest Nilfguardian outpost, following her instincts as she tries to locate her mentor, Geralt of Rivia.

   When she arrives at the outpost, the guards give her a wary look as she dismounts Eskel and swiftly climbs the stairs to the garrison. The guards posted there stop her. “Oi, remove yer hood,” one says, and she obeys, her ramrod straight, copper colored hair cascading around her face. The guards are obviously taken aback by her beauty, and her Witcher status. “What’s another Witcher want with the commander?” The other one asks her, and she perks up. “Another? You mean there was a Witcher here before me?” She asks, and they nod. “Tall one, white hair. He yer father or somethin?” The guard ask, and she shrugs. “Something like that, yes. Did he say where he was headed? I’m trying to find him,” she explains quickly, and the guards look at each other. “You’d have to ask the commander, he didn’t say naught to us,” the other guard says, unlocking the gate. “He’s up in the tower, there,” he directs, pointing to a shambling, old guard tower across the courtyard. She nods in thanks, jogging quickly to the tower.

   The commander turns when she enters, startled by her presence. “Another Witcher, sneaking up on me? I’ve already given out the basilisk contract, I have nothing for you,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. She shakes her head, looking down and thinking aloud, “So that’s why he was here,” before stepping closer to him. “No, I’m looking for the other Witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” she explains, tilting her head. The commander’s brows raise, crossing his arms. “Well, I sent him to a townswoman who found a farmer being mauled by a basilisk,” he says, cringing slightly at the thought. “Can you send me her way as well?” She asks, her eyes hopeful. The commander regards her for a moment, sighing and nodding. “She’s near the Saw Mill, lives with the herbalist there,” he relents, turning and lifting a coin pouch from his desk. “Give this to him when you see him,” he commands, tossing it to the girl, “Save him the trip and me the trouble.” He turns, shrugging her away. She doesn’t respond, simply puts the coin away and leaves the tower.

   She goes as fast as her horse can run towards the herbalist, nearly running over several civilians on the way. She doesn’t see Roach outside of the herbalists hut, and her heart falls slightly. She leaps off of Eskel and busts into the hut, startling the herbalist and her ward. “Apologies, but where did you send the Witcher you just spoke to?” she asks quickly, somewhat out of breath. The wide-eyed pair look at her like she has a second head, and her brows furrow. “Well? Do you know who I speak of or not?” She asks, advancing towards them. They back away, severely frightened. The young Witcher takes a deep breath, backing off and looking down, lost in thought. “If he’s not here yet, then maybe he ran into trouble on the road? Or perhaps he’s already found the basilisk and doesn’t need them.” She glances from the herbalist to the little town’s girl. “That fool, he shouldn’t face something as dangerous as a basilisk by himself,” she mutters, gnawing at her bottom lip, obviously worried.

   “Who’s gonna face a basilisk by himself?” She hears a familiar voice ring from behind her, and she whips around to see none other than Geralt himself. A smile breaks out onto her face and she launches herself at him. “Geralt!” She wraps her arms around him, nearly squealing with glee. He gives a hearty laugh, returning her hug. “Laya, nice to see you,” he says, patting her back. She pulls back, looking at him with knitted brows. “Why did you leave Kaer Morhen?” She asks, her eyes demanding answers. He sighs, looking over her shoulder. “Not here, give me a second with them,” he evades, pushing passed her gently. She pouts slightly, but stands by the door with her arms crossed impatiently.

   Geralt gives he two women a charming smile. “I’m Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. Are you the one who found the basilisk?” He ask the little girl, bending to be eye-level with her. She nods from behind the leg of the herbalist. He nods in response. “Can you tell me what you remember?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow in question. She nods, coming out from her hiding spot. “’E was like a li’l griffin, and ‘e used ‘is beak to bite at tha man. ‘E swooped at him, and tha man couldn’t even stand,” she explains. Geralt tilts his head, looking back at Laya, whose brows are also furrowed. “It sounds more like a cockatrice,” Laya mutters, and Geralt nods in agreement. He rises slowly from his crouched position, and the herbalist hands him a small pouch of coins. “Thank you. For everything,” he says with a nod, and the herbalist gives him a knowing look with her tight-lipped smile. Laya senses that they know each other, and suddenly feels slightly jealous. Geralt turns towards her, and she raises a brow in question. He gives her a dismissive wave and her jaw clenches. She pivots on her heel, pushing the door to the small hut open with a slam as she slinks out. Geralt sighs and follows her, preparing for her sass.

   When he comes out, he sees her assembling grapeshot bombs and placing them in the little bomb pouches on her belt. She notices him looking at her belt and goes back to work. “I’m coming,” she states defiantly. He grins. “I figured as much,” he murmurs, coming around to tend to Roach.  She sets down a recently finished bomb in exasperation. He avoids her questioning gaze, but she doesn’t relent. “Why did you leave so suddenly?” She asks, setting the last bomb into her belt and busying herself with making draconid oil. Geralt regards her for a moment before looking down at Roach’s saddle. He digs through the saddlebags and retrieves a letter. Laya sets the oil to simmer over the fire already outside the herbalist’s hut and strides over to him, plucking the letter from his palms.

   She reads it lighting fast, then looks up at him. “You were gonna go to Skellige completely alone? Why didn’t you tell me?” She asks, bristling slightly. “You know I would’ve come,” she says, looking a little saddened. Geralt holds her gaze fiercely. “Exactly. I knew you would follow me, so I set out without telling anyone,” he hisses, looking down, “I thought maybe I could get to Novigrad before you caught my scent, then Triss would be there to stop you from following me,” he explains, looking away from her. Her ambers eyes reflect how hurt she is. “You… wanted to get rid of me?” She asks, and he looks into her eyes quickly. “That’s not what I meant,” he corrects, sighing slightly. “Skellige is dangerous,” he tries to explain, but she reels back on him with, “So you think that you’re invincible? Of course you wouldn’t need my help.”

   She pulls out two vials and fills them with the hot oil, barely corking them before she flings them at him. He catches them, quickly placing them in his own belt before they singe his hands. She tosses the pot back into the embers, mounting her horse with angry swiftness. “Laya, wait,” Geralt calls out, gripping the reigns in her hands. She gives him a piercing glare. “If Skellige is too dangerous for me, a trained Witcher just like you, a cockatrice is out of the question, isn’t it? Have fun getting your liver picked out,” she snarls, snatching the reigns back and pushing passed him with Eskel. She throws a scornful glare over her shoulder before galloping away with lightning speed.

   Geralt doesn’t watch her leave, instead mounting Roach as quickly as possible and riding after her. “Laya!” He calls after her, but she’s one of the most skilled riders at Kaer Morhen and he’s struggling to keep up with her sharp turns. He resigns himself to following her until she tires of the chase, occasionally using his Witcher senses when he loses sight of her.

   Eventually she does grow tired of running from him. Unfortunately, she runs them straight into a nest of Drowners. When Geralt catches up with her, Laya is fighting tooth and nail against a large group of them, but he can smell that she is bleeding. He leaps into battle, and the pair cuts down the disgusting bog monsters in no time.  When the last Drowner lies dead, in halves thanks to Laya’s sword, they look at each other. Both Geralt and Laya are panting, and Laya looks to be favoring her left arm. Geralt sheathes his sword and walks over to Roach to retrieve some bandages for her. She meets him there, her own sword sheathed, and he cuts off the sleeve of her blouse to get at the wound. After pouring a bit of Dwarven Spirit on the slashes, and giving her a swig of it, he wraps her forearm tightly with the bandage. Geralt smiles to himself as he remembers doing this for her before she became a Witcher, when a Water Hag surprised her during a battle with some Drowners. “It’s always the left arm,” he teases, and she returns his small smile. “Except, this time, the Water Hag looked a lot like a certain white-haired Witcher I know,” she responds, her lips tight.

   The many other scars on Laya’s arm hadn’t escaped Geralt’s attention, and he vaguely wonders if she has as many scars as he does by now. She’s certainly reckless enough. His grimness must’ve slipped through his expression because her smile falls, and she pulls away from him as soon as he finishes. After a moment of silence, she looks up at Geralt with a set jaw. “I can handle myself, you know,” she starts, with a determined air. “Skellige is dangerous for any Witcher roving it alone, but together, well I think we’re a force to be reckoned with,” she says, holding his yellow-eyed gaze.

   His shoulders sag, and he presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. You can handle yourself. But… I… _care_ about you, alright? After Ciri and Yen…” he trailed off, and she nods, knowing how hard it is to talk about the people that leave us. “You couldn’t have stopped them, and you know it. Yen… She knew the dangers of the mutations, but she still went through with them. And Ciri, well, at least she’s still alive,” Laya reassures, and Geralt laughs sarcastically. “Yeah, alive and being used as a political pawn. Emyhr didn’t even let her go to Yen’s funeral,” he retorts, looking away to hide how obviously affected he is. Laya bites her lip, looking away from him too.

   Yen’s death had had an extreme effect on her, as well, but it downright _broke_ Geralt. Laya had spent every last bit of her time trying to piece him back together, and hers was the only company he tolerated for a good eight months after the burial. He eventually came back around, obviously, and things were pretty much back to normal, save for times like these when the thought of her throws the pair into a fit of melancholy.

Laya hops onto Eskel, looking down at the sad Witcher with a cunning expression.

“Well, c’mon then. That cockatrice isn’t gonna off itself!”


End file.
